


it's not a real slumber party until someone summons a demon (expanded)

by emplauncher, EveryWitchWay, Kleenexwoman



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Humor, Originally Posted on Tumblr, a short story in three parts because we all got carried away, don't try to summon demons at home kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 21:23:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19472479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emplauncher/pseuds/emplauncher, https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveryWitchWay/pseuds/EveryWitchWay, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/pseuds/Kleenexwoman
Summary: “horror movie trope where dumb teens summon a demon for funsies except it actually works and it’s just, crowley in pajamas all inconvenienced or something and then, you know, shenanigans ensue or whatever“





	it's not a real slumber party until someone summons a demon (expanded)

**Author's Note:**

> Movieheaux originally posted the quote in the summary on tumblr and we all got carried away like the bunch of nerds we are. Kleenexwoman posted their portion by itself over on their account, if you’d like to [check it out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19437130).  
> The original title and the first part is kleenexwoman, and second is emplauncher (ineffableloving on tumblr), and the last bit is mine (EveryWitchWay, or ineffably-witchy on tumblr). The version of the tumblr post being used in this work can be found [here](https://ineffably-witchy.tumblr.com/post/186010699929/horror-movie-trope-where-dumb-teens-summon-a-demon).  
> Enjoy!

Crowley was bored and peckish, but also feeling lazy, and not sure if he was peckish because he was bored or if he was actually hungry. Probably for company–he he had come to associate eating with Aziraphale, but there was the matter of being lazy. He thumbed through his phone contacts. “Pizza…angel…or mice. I do have those mice in the freezer. Could always put the mice on the pizza.” Aziraphale liked pizza, but there was also the prospect of spending an evening watching Alton Brown humiliate trained chefs on TV and eating demonic junk food, two things the angel didn’t really enjoy. He had just reached the mental compromise of a cupcake decorating show and two different pizzas when the ground opened up beneath him.

His first assumption, that Hell had seen fit to recall him in the most efficient way possible, didn’t seem to be correct. Hell had linoleum floors that were often sticky, but it usually didn’t smell like a combination of popcorn and cucumber melon body spray, and it also usually didn’t have cheap wood siding and a pool table. Summoned, then. He looked at the hand that had landed in the sticky. The sticky stuff on the floor had glitter in it. Glitter was also not especially infernal, no matter how hard it was to get out anything you didn’t want to have glitter on it.

There was normally a whole script you’d have to go through for a summoning–it was very impressive and contained a lot of threats, promises, and thees and thous–but Crowley hadn’t gotten through millennia on Earth by indulging a work ethic. Also, his summoners had used glitter glue. And they were wearing pajamas with cartoon characters instead of proper black robes. Professionalism could probably be dispensed with in this situation. He let the glitter glue disintegrate off his hand, then glared at the girl holding the bowl of popcorn. “That had better be for me.”

Her mouth dropped open, revealing half-chewed popcorn stuck to braces. Crowley decided he didn’t really want popcorn. He turned to a short redhead holding a large leather book. She wore Miss Piggy pajamas and a smug expression. Probably the leader. “Look, it’s Friday night, I’ve got places to be, just tell me what you lot want so I can get out of here.”

They didn’t hesitate.

“So, I really need to pass this test–”

“Does Bobby like me?”

“I need my braces off in time–”

“–or else they’re going to ground me for LIFE–”

“I mean, does he LIKE me like me–”

“–I’ll look like a dork in my bat mitzvah pictures–”

“Can you make it so I pass all of my tests, actually–”

“–and if he doesn’t like me can you tell me who does?”

“It doesn’t have to be all A’s, I’m okay with a B-plus–”

“–and can you make me a blonde?”

The redhead slammed the book shut. “Lauren, that is such a dumb thing to ask a demon. You can just dye your hair.”

“But my mom won’t let me!” Lauren wailed.

Crowley ran his fingers through his hair. He wanted a drink, snapped his fingers, and got one. It was pink and had an umbrella in it and a curly straw. He hadn’t intended that. “She’s got a point. You can’t let your mother tell you what to do all your life. Go blonde, you’d look good. Dye your hair blue if you want.” Disobeying your parents was one of the big ten, that was a very good one. He pointed at the girl who’d been worried about her test. “In fact, screw what your parents think, and screw grades. You want tests all your life? Don’t even bother with that test. Run off and–” What did kids run off to do today? “Become an Instagram influencer.”

“Um, I actually want to be a marine biologist.”

“Oh! Saving the whales. Better study, then. No way ‘round it. Sorry.” He sipped the drink. It tasted like coconut. “Who was asking about Bobby?”

“I don’t think I want to know now.”

“Yeah, good choice.” Crowley had no idea who Bobby was, how he felt about the girl with the bright orange fingernails and bunny slippers, or how he’d go about finding that out. He turned to the leader. “What about you, Miss-Piggy-with-the-book? You must want something. Or did you summon me up to braid my hair?”

“I want magic powers,” she said firmly.

Crowley gestured to the glitter glue. It was a mess. “You’ve already got them. This really shouldn’t have worked. Just…practice.” He pulled one of Aziraphale’s business cards out of thin air, which was really impressive because Aziraphale had absolutely refused to get business cards printed up, and handed it to her. “Loads of occult books in this shop. Bring your pocket money.”

She looked dubious, but pocketed it. Hopefully she’d stop by and Crowley would have a good afternoon’s entertainment watching the angel try and get rid of a very determined, very powerful little witch.

“All right,” Crowley said, “show’s over? Can I go now?”

Bunny slippers raised her hand. “Actually…Can I braid your hair?”

“How are you going to do that? I’m in a magic circle. I can’t get out, and you really shouldn’t step in.”

“Okay, well I don’t know everything about how magical circles work, and you don’t need to be a jerk about it.” Bunny slippers rolled her eyes.

“Demon,” Crowley said. “It is part of my job description to be a–look, do any of you want to sell your soul?”

A chorus of noes. There was a reason that bit normally came earlier in the spiel, but he had never been a very good salesman.

* * *

Of all the things Aziraphale wants to deal with today, a middle schooler with fire in her eyes, the determination to part his treasured books on the occult from his bookshop, and a Supernatural wallet from Hot Topic is not, shall we say, at the top of his To-Do list.

“How did you find this place, anyway?” Yes, the shop’s in a prime location, but Aziraphale doesn’t advertise anything to anyone, let alone young girls.

“I got the location from–” Oh yes, let’s tell this man how you got a business card from a demon you summoned in Sarah’s basement, “–uh, this. A guy gave it to me.”

She pulls the card out of her wallet and hands it to Aziraphale, who takes the card and examines it. There’s a doodle of a snake with sunglasses in the corner. Of course.

“Crowley, Crowley, why must you torment me so,” he murmurs, before sighing and looking back at the girl. “Look, if you must know, this bookshop is, well, it’s a bit of a ruse. I don’t sell anything here. Especially not the books.”

“You’re gonna sell to me,” she retorts with the courage only someone who regularly walks the hallowed halls of a public middle school can possess. She takes a step forward. The angel, who has been here since people left the cradle of humanity and who has seen the rise and fall of empires and faced off the Devil himself, takes a step back.

“Yes, I suppose I can part with a few tomes,” he says. “But only for you to borrow. And I expect them to be returned in the same condition that they left.”

“Of course.” The girl cracks a smile, and Aziraphale swears he feels a chill sweep through the room. “That sounds fair.”

Outside the shop, a demon laughs his ass off on the pavement.

* * *

Aziraphale spent the rest of the hours until closing time (which, really, was just when he paused in his pondering long enough to remember to go and flip the sign over) thinking about how to get his revenge on Crowley. Erh, well, maybe not revenge, since angels didn’t really do that sort of thing - Divine Justice, then. Yes, that sounded much more angel-like.

Unfortunately his musings on revenge (Divine Justice!) were interrupted by Crowley rapping rhythmically on the back door, who had apparently recovered enough from having a laugh outside the bookshop windows to go and pick up two pizzas, one with Crowley’s personal addition of mice, of course. The demon must’ve felt at least a shred of guilt, because it seemed that he had went through the trouble of flying all the way to Italy to acquire the pies from their favorite establishment. They were even still warm, and only tasted faintly of Evil from the demonic miracle it had took to keep them so. If he was being quite honest with himself, he enjoyed the slight sizzle it added to the pizza more then not, because it reminded him that deep down, Crowley could be quite thoughtful. Not that he would ever say as much though, since he wanted to continue to communicate with Crowley for the rest of the century. Even so, it was enough to distract him from plotting (planning!) his retaliation for the night.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Aziraphale encountered the girl several more times. Her boldness, impossibly, seemed only to increase, along with her outrageous fashion choices. The last time she was in, he hadn’t heard more then a “Thanks again, Mr. Fell!” before he had turned to see the girl disappearing out the door, stuffing new selections into a bag with the words “Mischief Managed” written on the side in elegant script. He rather thought it wasn’t.

He managed to chase away the “customer” he had been arguing with when the little witch had snuck in, but it took significantly longer then normal. It was more difficult to be taken seriously when you had a thirteen (“Nearly fourteen!”, she had once corrected him primly) year-old girl swiping books quite literally from behind your back. He really needed to put her in touch with Anathema, so that the young girl could learn from another proper human witch, but he was also faintly worried about the antics those two might get up to. Like a candle in an old bookshop, the two of them together were destined for trouble. At any rate, he was soon going to have to impliment a library system to keep track of the books that had fallen into her hands. Perhaps he could persuade Crowley to assist him, since he was the one that was so keen on the both of them continuing to lend an occult (or, in his case, divine) hand to the girl.

Aziraphale froze, struck as still as a salt pillar by the sudden realization that had overcome him. It was quite a nice revelation actually, one that filled him with warmth, and also had the added benefit of giving him the perfect opportunity get back at - ehm, respond with Divine Grace - to Crowley for his previous trickery.

He picked up the receiver on his phone, and swirled the dial to Crowley’s number (remembering to add the 666 area code this time) as quickly as possibly. Unlike all the times he phoned prior to the apocalypse, Crowley picked up just before the end of the first ring.

“Ah, angel, perfect timing. I’m at the shops now, while I’m here would you like me to pick up some strawberry ice lollies for after dinner tonight?”

Without missing a beat, Aziraphale responded with, “You know, if you had wanted us to adopt another child after Warlock, you could have just said so, my dear.”

Judging by the faintly strangled noises coming through the receiver, either Crowley had just been doused with holy water or Aziraphale’s guess was right on the money. Aziraphale beamed a little with something that was certainly not smugness. Angels were never smug, they were triumphant.

Before hanging up the phone, he said, “And by the way, now that you mention it, I would very much enjoy an ice lolly or two. See you at nine then. Toodle loo.”


End file.
